


100% Weapon Accuracy

by deathtouchwlw (deathtouch)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Brainwashing, Choking, F/F, Guns, Lesbian Sex, Medical Experimentation, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:02:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22579030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathtouch/pseuds/deathtouchwlw
Summary: Femfeb 2020 | Shortficanon suggested: Can the talon women get some love? Something dark with Moira,Sombra, and Widowmaker
Relationships: Moira O'Deorain/Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	100% Weapon Accuracy

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd! all mistakes are my own.

There is no such thing as 100% weapon accuracy. 

Not even with all the advancements in weapons; hard light material, graviton cannons, pulse rifles, and aim assist technology. Not even with all the advancements in science; soldier enhancements programs and cerebral implants to aid weapon use. Not even with Talon’s willingness and ability to reprogram a human brain, to strip everything from it so that the only thing left is a perfect killing machine. Not even then. 

Weapons, for all that they can do, are just parts. Pieces of plastic and metal. Nuts, bolts, screws. Mechanisms that can get jammed and need lube. The same way no two fingerprints are alike, no two guns are. The same make, the same model, made in the same factory and they still have variations. Some so subtle it’s almost impossible to tell. Others that are obvious; ‘careful with this one, she’s got a mean kickback’ and ‘this one pulls a little to the left.’

Even with perfect aim, Widowmaker doesn’t have perfect aim. It’s a statistical impossibility. She can account for herself and her precision, but outside factors are hard to account for. Weapons are hard to account for. So, she does the leg work. She tests every new rifle, spends days in the range firing and firing and firing. She spends hours pulling them apart, cleaning their pieces, oiling and lubricating. Putting them back together. Firing again. 

She learns the differences between them, learns to make up for what they lack, learns how to tell just by picking a weapon up which one it is and which ways she’ll need to compensate for its subtle inaccuracies. She has favorites. She knows which ones she likes, which ones she’ll take with her on missions. 

Her weapons accuracy sits at a solid 99.8% percent. There are only a handful of Talon agents who have ever achieved above 95%, and they’re all snipers too. Anything above 96% is considered to be elite. They pat themselves on the back, all pleased with their score.

Widowmaker doesn’t have that luxury. She knows what they will do to her if she fails to impress. So, she commits herself to this and only this. She gets to know every weapon intimately and still, the best she can possibly do is 99.8%. Everyone else is in awe, but she knows she can do better. If she just keeps trying. 

Widowmaker is a weapon too. Her body, her mind. That’s what Talon did to her. That’s what they made her. Sometimes she needs someone to spend days with her. Hours with her. Pulling her apart. Putting her back together again. She would do it herself, but she doesn’t know how… and Moira. Well. Moira has already put in so much leg work. 

Moira was there from the beginning. She was the one soothing a frightened Amelie with a soft voice and gentle fingers. “Don’t be scared, my dear.” She was the one with alcohol swabs and sharp needles, stinging as they slid in deep to the crook of Amelie’s arm. “This won’t hurt a bit.” She was the one looming over Amelie every time she was dragged unwillingly into unconsciousness. She was the one still standing there when Amelie awoke hours, days, weeks later with the taste of metal in her mouth. 

Moira knows her better than anyone. Moira knows how she works. Moira knows what she needs. 

Moira is the one who finds her assembling and disassembling her rifle late in the night. Set up at her desk, going through the motions, golden eyes glazed over. Moira stills her movements, kisses her cold cheek, and reminds her to come to bed. 

Moira is the one who greets her after long missions. Being a sniper sometimes means setting up somewhere hidden and staying there for hours on end. Days, even. Not moving a muscle, just staring down her scope into a window with a crack exposed in the curtains. Not moving even when she is thirsty, or hungry, or in desperate need to relieve herself. Moira helps her walk off the retrieval jet, legs stiff from disuse. Moira promises her good food for a job well done, and she never wrinkles her nose at the scent of stale urine. 

Moira is the one who cleans the blood off her after missions gone awry. She curses under her breath in a language Widowmaker doesn’t know. Moira is the one who checks her for wounds, stripping away her clothes, inspecting her body. She heals what she can find, liberal with her use of biotics. 

Sometimes she gets a righteous look in her eyes when she discovers deep stabs from tactical knives, or deep burns from pulse pistols. Sometimes she gets a look of annoyance. Sometimes it’s a look of pity. 

Moira is the one who escorts her down to the medical research facilities. Every few months or so. When the memories start coming back, and the dreams make her wake up in the middle of the night screaming. When she accidentally stumbles into something or someone she used to know out on a mission, stirring up things better left in the past. Moira still uses her soothing voice and soft fingers… and sharp needles. 

Moira is the one who makes her come. Fingers buried deep inside her slick cunt or teasing her clit with practiced strokes. She sucks marks into Widowmaker’s skin, kissing and biting until the pale blue flesh is bruised vivid purple. She gently nudges Widowmaker onto her side, pushing up her thigh to fuck her sweetly with a nice thick strap-on. She tells Widowmaker to take a deep breath before wrapping her fingers around her throat and squeezing tight, choking her until her orgasm comes crashing down around her mere seconds before the urge to pass out hits. 

There are so many ways Moira pulls her apart. There are so many more ways she puts her back together. 

Every year, Talon’s field agents are required to pass firearms proficiency exams. The snipers are tested for accuracy. Widowmaker has never disappointed before, and she’s certainly not going to now. There is no guarantee she’ll be given her preferred weapon to test with during the exam, but she spends extra time with it anyway, fine tuning it as if it could possibly be anymore fine-tuned. 

She knows better than to clean the barrel the night before a test. The first few rounds from a clean barrel hit different; they exit slower. At long range she runs the risk of vertical spread. Of course, she can account for that, but she already has so much to consider. She doesn’t clean the barrel at all. Instead cleans the chamber again, and again. She cleans the scope too. Again. And again. 

It’s nearly two am before Moira comes shuffling back to their room from the research and development facilities. She’s always busy with something, and late nights are nothing new for her. Moira finds Widowmaker sitting up at the desk, clearing the chamber of her rifle for the third time. Or three hundredth. 

Moira strokes her fingers through Widowmaker’s long black hair, the touch grounding her.

Widowmaker stills, focusing in on what she’s actually doing. Her fingers ache. She doesn’t remember how long she’s been at it. She supposes it doesn’t matter. 

“Come to bed,” Moira murmurs to her, leaning down to kiss her head. 

In bed, when they’re all curled up under the covers, Moira’s stroking fingers continue working their way through Widowmaker’s hair, touch soft and soothing. It lulls her but she can’t sleep. She lays her head on Moira’s chest, unblinking, staring out at the darkness of their room they share.

“You’re worried about tomorrow, aren’t you?” Moira asks, still stroking her hair. 

She knows about the test. Even though neither of them has mentioned it since last year. Even though Moira has her own weapons and doesn’t adhere to Talon’s standards, least of all their proficiency tests. She doesn’t take them herself. It doesn’t matter to her. It matters to Widowmaker though, and that’s why she remembered. Because she knows Widowmaker better than Widowmaker knows herself. 

“Don’t be, my love. You’ll be perfect.” 

Yes. She will be. She must be. Moira will make sure she is.

There is no such thing as 100% weapon accuracy.

Yet.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm taking femslash february suggestions year round  
> send requests or prompts ➝ [here](https://curiouscat.me/deathtouch)  
> femfeb '20 masterpost ➝ [here](https://twitter.com/deathtouchxx/status/1223794127822839808?s=20)  
> follow me on twitter ➝ [here](https://twitter.com/deathtouchxx)  
> thanks for reading ✩°｡⋆


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